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Warning: this is going to be a long post and deals with mental health, suicide, and all the ugliness that’s wrapped up in that. If you’re sensitive to that, please stop reading and just take down the following numbers:
988 — Suicide Prevention hotline. Toll Free, 24/7. English or Spanish. Don’t want to talk? You can text.
My Snapchat and WhatsApp contact info. Think there’s no way out? Think your loved ones and friends would be better off without you? In a really dark spot? Call or text me. I’ll talk:
About 2 years ago, sometime after midnight on a Sunday morning my mom went in her backyard with a .380 handgun, put it in her mouth, and pulled the trigger. I could stop there. Why shouldn’t I? I mean, that’s it. Just the facts right? She did those three things, and then she did no more. My Dad found her body the next morning when he took the dogs out. The last memory I have of my mom was trying to keep the dogs out of the grass that was stained with her blood, bone, and brain tissue. That was all that we had left of her, that red spot on the ground. Like some dried up lake bed declaring to the world “Here was I! Great and glorious in my existence! See! Gaze upon the dried up vestige of all I was, am, and ever will be and honor me!”. All the memories, arguments, fights, hugs, diaper changes, life lessons, bloody knees, bad grades, good grades… the high school graduation, the elementary school spelling bees, school plays, church camps, tire swings, training wheels… all the proms and homecomings, the birth certificates, the bed times… the fireflies and frogs, the puppy dogs, the dirty laundry, the tears, the laughter, the love. Everything right there in those too few blades of red grass. That was it. While the police officers followed my dad around, we tried to focus on moving. No, they weren’t following him around because he was a murder suspect. They followed him around to make sure he didn’t eat his own bullet. So we kept trying to move. Forward, backwards, it didn’t matter. We just moved. I guess we need to call her work and tell them she’s not coming in today… or ever. Insurance? Bills? Who else can we call so we don’t have to sit in the silence. So we don’t have to reflect on all the memories that were staring us straight in the eye from that crimson patch.
Harsh? Hardly enough. If I could visualize the bullet passing through her skull in slow motion and capture the moment her life was extinguished I would do that. If all I had was her last thought as she returned the breath that was too quickly borrowed I would box it up and store it away with all the riches of men and gods, and having done so I would consider myself the wealthiest creature to have ever lived. But I can’t. So all I have remaining is that gun, the bullet, the flesh on the ground, and the red stained grass.
Over two years ago. Two years of tears. Two years of heartache. Two years of regret over every conversation we didn’t have, and every conversation that we didn’t have to have. Two years of trying to make sense of life, faith, health, existence, love. You see, when a life is taken too soon by some other outside force, blame comes easy. Hate, blame, anger, rage; all these things can be properly and righteously aimed. A murderer, drunk driver, cancer, whatever. Hate it. Hate it and rage and allow yourself to feel all that. Even when you stand in the cold expanse outside of God’s will, your anger and rage will keep you warm and sated… for a while at least. When the killer and victim are one and the same, well what then? There’s no comfort that comes in hate and rage. There’s no tear that is not guilty. There is no shame or regret that is just. Guilt is a pestilence that stains every thought, emotion, and prayer you have. The killer and the victim should never be singular. Over two years. And counting.
And I’m going to continue to count the years. The months. The days. The hours. Each single one. Not because I want to, but because I have to. For better or worse, this was the last gift my mother gave me. But starting now I’m counting out loud. I am using my voice as well as my heart. I do not want your apologies nor your condolences though they be well intended. Do not pray for my mother’s soul or the affectations of her actions. No, I don’t want your sorrows and sorry’s. I want your stories. I want your words and your voices. I want you to talk to each other. To me. To strangers. To whoever will listen. I’m giving you my story so you can give me yours. Talk about this. Talk about the reality of suicide. Talk about the fact that there is 1 suicide attempt in the US every 26.2 seconds. Talk about the fact that suicide is the second leading cause of death among 15–24 year olds. Talk about the fact that depression is the leading cause of suicide. Or how 80%-90% of clinically diagnosed depression is successfully treated.
Look, life is hard. It really is. And I know that at best, we probably only reveal a very small glimpse of what’s going on in our heads and hearts to other people. I’m not naive. That’s not a 30–60–90 day improvement timeframe. We’re talking generational change here. So. Start. Now. It’s too late for so many others, including my mom and my family (what, you still thought the dead were the only victims here?).
An old friend of mine wrote a song many, many, many years ago. The genesis of this particular song was the suicide death of his friend’s sister. At the time, I was too young and naive to understand the depth and pain in the words. Sometime after my mom’s passing I happened to stumble upon this song again. And it moved me to tears. The raw, pleading, unassuming pain in the words were more than I could say, but everything I needed to say. I reached out to him, and he was gracious enough, despite his extremely busy schedule (he’s still a professional musician after all!), to talk with me. The years may have seperated our losses, but the pain united us. He sent me a note with his favorite line from the song. I keep it on my desk. Not to remind me of the pain and loss (though that may occur), but to remind me of… well frankly how much death, depression, suicide, and this stupid filthy, dirty rock we live on sucks. I recently decided it was time to put all this out there. As a fan of tattoo art, I wanted to have something fitting done that allowed me to reflect on the loss of my mother, but not over-romantisize the complicated relationship I had with her. Part of this was getting those words imprinted on my arm. So as I wrap this up, I’ll leave you with a few things. A picture of my arm. The lyrics from the chorus of the song (a link to the song if Derek doesn’t object!). And one final call to action/plead:
Just talk.
It doesn’t matter how deep the hurt, shame, or distant the love or God. Tell me all about it. Promise I won’t tell you it’s going to be OK. But I will tell you that WE will be OK.
What crimes have you committed
Demanding such penance
That couldn’t wait for five more minutes
And I cry for help
Cause this room is so peaceful
And this room is so quiet
And I hate the silence
And I can’t walk
The center aisle
